42: THE WOLF CUBS
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Xaloma, the Dragon of the Afterlife, tried to swallow the wrong damned soul
“Don’t you think you might have been a bit harsh on your mother?” Dorna said.
Janel threw her a look. “No, I don’t.”
“But still—”
Janel held up a finger. “You know I love you, Dorna, so please don’t remind me you have been working for Tya all this time and never told me the truth.”
Dorna sighed and looked mournfully into her cup while Star put his arm around her. Across the bar, Ninavis reached over and nudged Qown.
“Right,” he said, returning to his spot in his journal.
Qown’s Turn. The Ice Demesne, Yor, Quur.
When not studying in Shadrag Gor, Brother Qown returned to the library at the Ice Demesne. But his studies were interrupted.
The door to the library opened, and several men entered. He didn’t look up from his writing at first, being engrossed in describing clairvoyance using thermal variance.
Then someone grabbed his book.
“What’s this?” The offending man—tall, handsome, and Quuros—paged through the book. “Are you seriously writing about crop yields?”
Brother Qown stood up, slipping Worldhearth into his agolé as he did. His heart sank as he recognized Sir Oreth. He didn’t know the other men, but he knew enough to recognize royalty—except for one pale-skinned young man who looked part Yoran.
“My pardon,” Brother Qown said, bowing. “But I’m working on research at Relos Var’s request.” He hadn’t been writing about crop yields at all, but one of his earliest spells involved hiding his writing behind an illusion of tedious drivel. He used it often.
“Oh, look how tame he is, Darzin,” Sir Oreth cackled. “This is Janel Theranon’s lackey priest, the one Relos Var gaeshed. Kept hostage against Janel’s good behavior.”
“He doesn’t need to worry about that anymore,” the Yoran young man said. “What a sad joke, being gaeshed for nothing.”
Darzin rolled his eyes. “Exidhar, we must work on your subtlety.”
Brother Qown felt cold. “I’m sorry, lords, but I don’t understand your meaning.”
“Oh, nothing,” Sir Oreth said, still smirking. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and mimed a shiver. “Brrr.”
The other men laughed.
Brother Qown’s sense of dread threatened to turn into a full-blown panic. “Are you implying something has happened to Count Tolamer?”
Sir Oreth said, “She’s not a count anymore. She’s not even Joratese.” He smiled. “She’s not anything.”
“Give us the room,” Darzin commanded. “We came here looking for privacy.”
Brother Qown bent down to pick up his supplies.
Darzin slapped his hand down on the brushes. “Just go.”
Brother Qown straightened and then held out his hand. “Of course, my lord. But I’ll need that. Relos Var is waiting on it.”
Darzin glanced down at the book and then cast his gaze at the fire.
“No, please.”
Darzin grinned as he threw the book into the fireplace.
Brother Qown darted after it, but the D’Mon royal grabbed him by the shoulders and held him back. “Relos Var is waiting on it, hmm? You’ll have to tell him you tripped and it landed in the fire, won’t you? How clumsy.”
Brother Qown stopped struggling. The royal wanted to see him struggle. Qown stopped resisting, straightened up, and bowed to Darzin D’Mon. “Thank you, my lord.”
Darzin blinked, taken aback. “What? Uh … didn’t you need that?”
“Oh yes, my lord. Very much. And when I tell Relos Var what happened, he’ll know I’m telling the truth. But you have given me a valuable lesson in the importance of detachment from material things, even books. There is nothing in those pages that cannot be re-created. So thank you for reminding me.” He bowed again.1
Darzin looked bemused. Finally, the man rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Get out of here.”
Brother Qown went searching for Thurvishar.
“I think they’ve done something with Janel,” Brother Qown said as soon as Thurvishar answered the door to his suite. He then rushed inside without giving the larger man a chance to answer.
“Hold on. What are you talking about?”
Brother Qown tried to recover his calm. For all he knew, Janel was already dead. But if Relos Var was right …
If Relos Var was right, Janel needed to be alive. They all needed her to be alive.
He shook his head. “I was writing my notes in the south library when one of the D’Mon royals interrupted me. Darzin and his companions. Including Sir Oreth, I’m sad to say…”
“The Wolf Cubs.”
Brother Qown paused. “What?”
“We call Exidhar’s friends the Wolf Cubs. The fact Darzin has landed among them doesn’t surprise me in the least. He’s never grown up either.” Thurvishar raised an eyebrow. “What did they do?”
“Exidhar and Sir Oreth both made nasty comments hinting Janel is in jeopardy somewhere very cold.”
“I understand she’s been left with the wives.” Thurvishar laughed. “I suppose that’s cold enough.”
“No, you don’t understand. I used Worldhearth to search every fire in the palace. She’s not here. I can’t find her.”
Thurvishar stopped smiling.
After a moment, he said, “Is it possible she’s escaped?”
Brother Qown blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him. Yes, it was possible. She might have escaped. Janel could leave at any time. She wasn’t gaeshed.
He shook his head. “No. She wouldn’t … she wouldn’t leave me.”
“Are you so sure?”
Brother Qown nodded. “I’m sure. And they wouldn’t have been so smug if that was it. Something bad has happened, and those men were part of it.”
“Let’s find the Hon.”